


If Lenses Were Mirrors

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Camping, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Incest, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Parent/Child Incest, Webcams, camboy Malcolm, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: In the summer before fall semester at Harvard, Malcolm records his father's actions after drinking a special cup of tea.  It quickly spirals out of Malcolm's hands and right into Martin's.  Mind the tags.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	If Lenses Were Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> KateSamantha: *mentions forced camboy Malcolm*
> 
> Me: Okay me, let's write a quickie.
> 
> The prompt isn't filled to the exact specification of forced webcam, but there is noncon, dubcon, and all the cons of incest shipping. If you like your evil sweet.

Malcolm Whitly looks at his family when he shakes hands with the headmaster of Avalon Academy and accepts his high school diploma. One of his classmates, Vijay, gives him two thumbs up. Malcolm’s lip quirks, but after what happened in sophomore year, he can’t manage a full smile. The real and genuine article of happiness brightens his face when he spots his mother Jessica and his sister Ainsley sitting with crossed ankles and waving their wide brim hats when his name is declared. 

Vijay’s father, Mr. Chandasara, spots Malcolm and offers congratulations. Jessica puts on friendly airs and wishes Vijay the best through a red lipped grimace. Then Jessica asks Mr. Chandasara to take photos of herself and her children. Vijay and Malcolm look at each other with mutual horror when they are encouraged to take a buddy buddy photo. Graduation day is beautiful even when Martin slips his cell phone into his breast pocket, grips Malcolm’s waist, and joins the family photo.

Malcolm would fold the printed photo in half if not for Ainsley huddled beside their father. He leaves the photo flat on his study desk, a slim paper weight strategically placed between himself and Ainsley. Malcolm finishes tidying the study desk in his bedroom once he arranges the stapler, eraser, and pencils. He doesn’t like any of his things touching. He looks at his impeccable bookshelf where Monte Cristo and Les Mis are perched and resists fiddling with his special copies. Malcolm tucks his hair back, lays in bed with his legs crossed and his book open.

_/When things were very bad his soul just crawled behind his heart and curled up and went to sleep/_

Malcolm doesn’t let the knocks on the frame of his bedroom door interrupt his reading. He leaves the door open late at night, but Martin rarely deviates from his script when certain conditions are present. Jessica dozes from her nightcap. Ainsley is staying up all night at her girlfriend’s. Martin knocks.

“You should be sleeping, Malcolm. Doctor’s orders,” says Martin. 

“I can’t sleep,” replies Malcolm.

“Luckily, I have a kettle of water on the stove. Care to join me for tea?” offers Martin.

Malcolm closes the book and places it cover side down, knowing that he won’t remember or care to remember by morning. He pulls on his terrycloth robe and double knots the cloth belt. The kettle is not ready yet. As Malcolm sits on a tall stool and props his elbows on the wooden surface of their chef’s prep table, he thinks about putting the scalding hot kettle to his thigh, if it means that he won’t fall asleep.

“I’ve missed our tea times,” says Martin. He briefly touches the back of Malcolm’s neck. “I regret letting your mother talk me into shipping you out to boarding school. Family tradition be damned. You’re my son.” Martin’s fingers thread Malcolm’s hair. “Soon you’ll be in Cambridge making me proud.”

Martin waits for him to say, “Thanks, Dad.” Malcolm is saved by whistle blowing noises. Martin steeps the tea and asks Malcolm to mount a search for the sugar cubes. Their larder is extensive. Malcolm has to go through the chef’s inventory to find staple ingredients. By the time Malcolm returns with the package of sugar cubes, two steaming cups await. He accepts the one which his father nudges forward.

Malcolm adds three sugar cubes. His first sip quiets down his cravings. He is nauseated by how much he misses his father’s tea when he’s away for school. Soon the tea calms him. His feet tangle on the stool but Martin is there to put him to bed. Malcolm floats out of his body as dark curly hair brushes his chin.

He observes himself the next few days and vaguely registers the disconnect between the back of his thoughts and what he speaks. Relief when his father flies out of state to perform a coronary artery bypass grafting procedure. Then he can’t swallow his dinner when the surgeon returns. When he’s numbed up to his ears, Malcolm pulls the dead camera from its hiding spot between Messieurs Dumas and Hugo's nook on the bookshelf and inserts the memory card into his laptop. He sits clothed in the tub of his personal bathroom and hits start.

Forty minutes into the video, his terrycloth robe blacks out the picture. On screen, Malcolm sits on his bed. His white legs poke out of the terrycloth secured by the cloth belt. His father yanks down the lapels of his robe and pulls his shirt up and off. After an aborted fumble on the knotted cloth belt, Martin bunches the robe and tugs it past Malcolm’s slim ankles. Martin lays Malcolm down and massages his arms. From a side view, the camera captures Martin’s fingers tracing the bones of Malcolm’s chest. Martin flexes and extends both arms and legs; and rotates each limb in its joint.

The audio quality isn’t great. Though Malcolm dials up the volume as loudly as he dares, only one man knows what was said as Martin draws out his erect cock from pleated khakis and lifts his brown and yellow plaid shirt to rub his cock along Malcolm’s groin. Martin sticks three fingers into Malcolm’s mouth.

“Hydrated. Good,” says Martin, slicking his cock. His dominant hand cups Malcolm’s chin, raising Malcolm’s blank face as though to clear the airways. Martin checks his son’s teeth. “But no more licorice for you, my boy.”

Malcolm feebly swipes at his father’s plaid shirt. Martin catches his hand and slots his cock in Malcolm’s slack fist.

“Don’t throw a fit. I’ve got a yummy surprise for you.”

Martin crawls up until only the seat of his khakis are visible; plastic buttons in the rear pockets break up the rounded silhouette of Martin’s buttocks which jerk on and off screen as Malcolm’s heels twitch from movement off camera. His legs flutter like a butterfly pinned by merciless winds. His father’s cozy clothes block out his shoulders. Coughing and gurgling noises peter out into wet little pops which cease when Martin’s buttocks clench, the muscle briefly indented. At the same time, Malcolm’s prick softens as ropes of his cum land on ungroomed hair shading his navel.

Then a pair of dexterous hands, the most steady which Malcolm has ever known, creeps over his abdomen. Rolling palms bunch Malcolm’s stomach into a creamy swell. Once Martin rubs cum all over Malcolm’s skin, he holds his hands over his face, stifling whatever he says over Malcolm’s sated body.

Warm shower water brings Malcolm back to where he is, inside the bathtub. He blinks at his hand trembling on the hot water faucet. He kicks the laptop toward the drain and gags under the spray. Water soaks his polo shirt and pale denims. It’s warm. It’s heated like someone’s holding him close. The resulting humidity stifles him. The image of his father pawing at him minimizes, the sound of his bed springs still playing. His mother bought him a white MacBook 2.0 GHz/1 GB RAM/80 GB HD. Various icons enlarge, drop down menus sporadically scroll and highlight arbitrarily, and several windows cycle through running programs before the screen blacks out with a foul smelling explosive spark.

Malcolm curls up beneath the prickling shower water until he’s too frozen to feel his throat lock up. He skips dinner for bed after he shoves his wet clothes under the ruffled bed skirt. Though he triple knots the belt of his robe, Malcolm will not sleep. When the floor in his room creaks late at night, he scrunches his eyes closed and decides not to exist for what comes next. He hears the door to his bathroom swing, followed by the toilet and the sink.

Then Ainsley pads out of his bathroom in her spaghetti strap camisole and purple pajama bottoms. In about ten hollowed eye minutes, his mother Jessica waltzes into his bedroom. Jessica’s diamond ring sparkles when she claps her hands to switch on the light. Ainsley hovers near the scene of the crime.

“Malcolm Whitly! Did you drop your new laptop in the bath?! How could you be so irresponsible?” demands Jessica. She’s in a long green cocktail dress with elbow length ruched black gloves. “You could’ve been electrocuted! Then I would have died from the shock of walking in on my son in a ghastly state… !”

“I think it might go over better if I have a heart to heart with the young man. Vim and vigor and voltage... veritably volatile, ” says Martin, letting himself in. He pockets his black tie. The collar of his pressed white shirt hangs open. “Unless you wanted to talk to him about the affliction of red-blooded males?”

“Ew, Dad!”

“We all come from somewhere, my angel,” says Martin to his daughter.

“Ainsley, you should be sound asleep. Beauty rest or you’ll get pimples,” says Jessica. She defers to her husband as she puts the fear of acne into Ainsley. “If you think I’m buying you another MacBook, you can think again young man!” She yanks the door, shutting them in together.

“Dude, you’re getting a Dell,” quips Martin. He fingers the literature on Malcolm’s shelf. 

“I’m fine with that,” says Malcolm, tightening his robe with the pillow in his lap.

“Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another,” says Martin fondly. He seats himself neatly on the bed and reaches for Malcolm’s feet which are under a thin blanket. Malcolm’s knees spread like butterfly wings before Martin can catch him by his toes. 

“I have a faint inkling of what you were up to in the tub. Rub a dub dub?” says Martin, eyes sparkling as he makes gentle fun. “My father did horrible things to me when he caught me… discovering myself, so to speak.”

Malcolm’s fingers press his lips. If only throwing the blanket over his head might do the trick. 

“Were you, perhaps, searching for novelty images?” says Martin. “Or watching videos? Believe it or not, I was your age once. I could not remain ignorant of my nature.”

Seeing that familiar knowing smile, Malcolm decides to spoil the fun. Even if it means consciously opening his mouth for the man who used it.

“I was watching a movie,” says Malcolm. He reassures himself again that his robe is tied not once but thrice.

“Oh, my boy. I hope your antivirus is up to date,” says Martin. His weight shifts toward Malcolm whose nerves twang in accordance with the bed springs. “I want you to know that the sex in pornography is nothing like the real thing. Love making ought to be explored with someone who’s trustworthy.”

Martin’s eyes gleam like opaque mirrors.

“It wouldn’t be with the delivery guy or your teacher,” says Martin, the green of his hazel eyes leaching into his jealous tone. “Speaking generally, of course. Assuming that what you watched contained a shred of plot. If I did my job as your father, you’d appreciate images which tell a good story.”

With almost hatred twisting his heart, Malcolm speaks up as though each word from Martin spurs him into a boxing ring, round one.

“I watched porn about a doctor…” Malcolm savors the hitch in his father’s breathing and the second glance beneath the crinkled lidded eyes.

Martin covers up with a quick laugh. “And his nurse? Another fan favorite.”

“No, Dad. The doctor and his own son,” answers Malcolm, lips trembling and teardrops beading on his lashes. “Or should I say, the surgeon. The surgeon laces chamomile tea with date rape and touches h-him. Forces him into oral.” Malcolm glares at him, disgusted.

Martin, though speechless, follows Malcolm’s staunch gaze to the bookshelf facing the side of Malcolm’s bed. Martin cradles Messieurs Dumas and Hugo before he plucks out Nikon-sama. The silver battery lid of the digital camera hangs ajar. Martin replaces each thing as it was, but he has no ready answer or soundbyte in face of Malcolm sucking and biting his thumb.

Martin tenderly cups his son’s cheek, licking his dry lips and scrunching his brows in consternation when Malcolm flinches and pointedly wedges the pillow between them. 

“No, Dad. Just stop!” spits Malcolm. He lowers his puffy bottom lip and bares his teeth.

Martin tosses the pillow like it’s garbage and catches the bashful aversion of Malcolm’s eyes. Martin silently regards the bulge telling on Malcolm before he casts aside Malcolm’s blanket. In the short struggle for the blanket, Malcolm kicks his pale and hairy stick legs. His robe twists open, baring the lines of hair on his chest. Martin clamps his palm over Malcolm’s lips and reaches between Malcolm’s legs, violently seizing the short and tight little hairs. The scream building up in Malcolm’s throat abates to a low moan. Martin wets his thumb in the back of Malcolm’s throat. The pressure on Malcolm’s pubic hairs ceases when Malcolm suckles, his tongue curled under his father’s thumb.

“That’s better. Settle down and listen to me,” coaxes Martin, thumb swirling the inside of Malcolm’s cheek. Martin smacks Malcolm’s flushed cheek, chuckling when Malcolm twitches but otherwise keeps his blue eyed gaze riveted. “The fateful night when the surgeon put his son to bed, that was him taking what he wanted before letting his son go free, leave home, and live his own life. But then his clever boy chased after forbidden knowledge.”

Malcolm moans around his fingers as Martin rubs at slender thighs and narrow hips before gripping Malcolm’s prick. Martin uses pressure calculated to edge pleasure into painful delight. His touch soothes the reddened flesh where he pulled Malcolm by the pubic hairs.

“You’re permitted to attend university and have relations. Whether you’re going out with chums or working during the semester, you have additional obligations,” says Martin. He pauses in stroking Malcolm to pleasure.

“What do you want me to do?” gasps Malcolm. He bucks his hips, biting his lips and lashes fluttering.

“I’d like to see how you’re doing while you’re at school. Send me fun videos since you like recording yourself,” answers Martin. “I’m displeased that you destroyed your video before sharing it with me.”

“Dad, pictures over email or messenger services are traceable,” objects Malcolm. “Someone will find them or have the capability to access them years after. I can’t. Don’t make me.”

“You will figure out a discreet arrangement, Harvard boy,” says Martin. He withdraws his hands and he relishes the stricken expression on Malcolm’s face. “Do a bit more, and you shall receive more.”

“This is wrong. You can’t. You’re…” Malcolm folds his legs and draws them up to cover himself from Martin’s scrutiny.

“Assistant professor. Board certified surgical physician. Affiliated with the city Commissioner of Health as a member of the New York City Board of Health. Personally appointed by Mayor Bloomberg’s administration,” says Martin. 

The only thing which Malcolm wears is a replaceable article of clothing purchased on Martin’s income while the Milton assets appreciate in value. Martin is aroused for reasons that go beyond his son’s exposed body.

“Please, Dad.” Malcolm moves into a pose that makes him closed off, stiff, and ineffective in dissuading Martin.

“I love you too much to stop. Trust me, my boy.” Martin grabs Malcolm’s wrist and allows him to feel the satin lapel of the tuxedo before guiding Malcolm’s touch to his burgeoning erection. “The little home movie you made had a very charming start, I’m sure, but let me offer you a happier end than screaming bloody murder to the police.”

Not at all deterred by the firmly knotted cloth belt, Martin snaps the flimsy thread holding the belt to Malcolm’s robe and winds the loop of fabric around Malcolm’s wrists. Malcolm is restrained while Martin grips his hair and inches his cock down Malcolm’s throat in a stretch that is entirely within Martin’s control.

* * *

Martin takes his son camping with a family friend. Jessica is incredulous about letting Malcolm enjoy his summer when he is grounded, but Martin convinces her that Malcolm needs physical activity as a healthier outlet than anything which Malcolm finds online.

“God forbid he wastes away without any wi-fi connection,” concludes Jessica.

Their small party sets up two tents on a well frequented campground. Martin passes many family vehicles on the drive upstate.

“Nice to see you again, little Malcolm. You were too small and busy getting into trouble to remember me,” says his dad’s friend. The man is slightly shorter in height than Martin but his beard is longer and graying. He introduces himself as John. “A shame that it’s not hunting season just yet.”

“Patience, friend. This is my son’s first camping trip in a long while. It’s better to ease a young man into his own nature,” says Martin.

Dinner is nicer than Malcolm expects. They dig into fresh pre packaged beef cubes roasted with garlic cloves and bell peppers on skewers which Martin personally seasoned. Cured sausage and canned pork are reserved for additional days spent outdoors. John passes Malcolm an open beer.

While John banks the fire, Malcolm rinses his hand from a water jug and then brings his bedroll outside of the tent. He knows he won’t fall asleep in the same tent as his father. But with the crackling fire, Martin and John conversing over tomorrow’s weather forecast issuing from a battery-powered radio, and an amazing canopy of stars, Malcolm drifts into a relaxed state that’s almost like sound sleep.

His arms and legs are heavy when his father unzips his sleeping bag.

“Bring the heat lamp closer,” says Martin to John. Then he takes off Malcolm’s shoes, peels off his socks, and pulls off Malcolm’s sweatpants which Martin bought the last time they visited Cambridge. With Malcolm slackened from the laced beer, Martin opens his son’s tight and warm little rim with medical lube from a tube. Malcolm’s eyes water when his father replaces his bunched fingertips with his half-hard penis. It’s a relief for Malcolm when fingernails no longer press the inside where his father extends him. Martin thrusts in with even breaths.

“See? I’m not hurting you,” says Martin. He firms up inside Malcolm, pushes his stiffened length inward as he gathers Malcolm into his arms for the first kiss that Malcolm will remember.

Malcolm gets a hit of aftershave but also an added fragrance like oak or bourbon from the conditioner in Martin’s beard. The hairs on Martin’s face feels softer than it should be on Malcolm’s fever warm cheek. Malcolm opens from how good his father feels and smells. His father remains clothed, but Malcolm revels in the scant inches of flesh which his father gives him. Martin sinks deeper, blinking his lids rapidly as he reaches untouched depths.

“What a well behaved little boy,” comments John. “You trained him real nice.”

“Quiet,” says Martin. “I said you could watch. Need I emphasize your non-speaking role for this occasion?”

Malcolm dreams of being wrapped around cock with his father thrusting on top of him. With John recording their tryst, Malcolm is treated to the close up of his father’s face spasming when his father spills inside him. It eases the pain of hiking when his puffy asshole leaks cum onto his skin.

Their next dinner together is followed by sloppy seconds. This time, Martin injects Malcolm with a syringe needle which paralyzes him. John brings out a flood light hooked up to a generator. Malcolm endures as best as he can to please his father. Martin watches John fuck into Malcolm lying prone. He didn’t say yes to John. Martin doesn’t warn Malcolm in advance. John treats him like a body that doesn’t feel. 

He can’t show his father the pain, but somehow Martin innately perceives such suffering. Glee touches his father’s expression. Martin indulgently kisses his son like it’s Malcolm’s first time again. It’s a soft lick with John tearing him into a raw and sweaty mess. Martin strokes himself to full rigidity, his cock choking out breath as he uses Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm goes soft from the pain of his hole seared by John’s ruthless pounding without enough prep and no additional lubricant besides his father’s spend. Then he gulps down cum, lungs screaming for air, as John dumps hot seed into him. It’s at least two loads worth because John is a bachelor.

“Do you want to know why sex felt great with me but not with the other guy?” asks Martin. He carries Malcolm into his tent and wraps a damp cloth around an ice pack to alleviate Malcolm’s sore hole.

Malcolm sobs, unable to reach for Martin or at least close his legs.

“Other men may be bigger than me in girth and length and possess considerably more energy than I,” continues Martin. He caresses Malcolm’s cheek and hauls Malcolm onto his shoulder, curling up until they’re nestled together. “And yet, you weren’t able to orgasm from another man loving you. What have you learned? You may speak, the paralytics will have worn off.”

“I don’t want sex with other men,” says Malcolm, sucking his breath and leaking tears and nut. He shakes in the harbor of Martin's arms. “He hurt me, Dad. I can’t move.”

“Good thing we have a doctor in the house. Tent,” says Martin. He coddles Malcolm. “Would you like me to turn all your pain into bliss, my boy?”

“Please. Please, Dad.” Malcolm breaks down into tears from the agony swelling within him.

Martin drugs him from a different syringe. Malcolm shudders from the draught flapping the double panel door. He is lighter than air. The pain tensing his muscles releases him and he feels full of warmth and awash in gentle sensations where John violated him. Martin’s beard rubs the back of Malcolm’s neck and his fingers comfort Malcolm in chaste touches. Malcolm’s prick remains soft but cum squirts from the tip as he overflows from the pleasure which his father gifts to him. Through it all, Martin doesn’t let him go.

* * *

Martin is in the middle of entertaining a guest at a charming cottage in wildflower meadows when his phone pings a notification. He looks over the individual strapped to an unvarnished wooden chair and reluctantly puts down his scalpel congealed with blood and lymphatic fluid.

Irritation pinches Martin’s features. “If you’ll excuse me. That’s my son, Malcolm. He has a personal web page and the only content he produces are live video streams. He’s not scheduled to be on at this time of night, but I must check.”

Not that his guest can argue after Martin cut the root of their tongue and pulled it down their esophagus. Air whistles through the opening of an impromptu tracheotomy. Martin snaps off his purple nitrile gloves. He prefers to use materials alternative to latex for any of his guests who are allergic to latex dust.

Martin is glad he brought his encrypted tablet with him. He logs into a spam email account and clicks the most recent link sent to him from Malcolm’s web page. Despite the middle of the night hours, other users are active in the chat box. They’re colleagues of Martin’s, in a sense, or fellow hobbyists or leisure seekers whom Martin encountered in work trips far from home. Each one of them are vetted by Martin for access to his son.

Martin signs in; username DadliestCatch22. He experiences a happy tickle when Malcolm’s eyes dart off to the side to read the entry confirming his login. Malcolm hung up a sheet with white whale prints to obscure the room he’s in.

“I had matcha bubble tea tonight so... Hi! I'm up! My sister and her boyfriend dragged me out to Chinatown… oops. Oh, shoot. Ohhhh, shoot. My dad doesn’t know about the boyfriend. She’s planning to make proper introductions when my dad’s back from his work trip. She’s going to kill me when she finds out that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

A naughty smirk plays across Malcolm’s face lit by his Dell laptop. “You know what else I can’t keep shut?”

Malcolm usually stages himself in his bedroom or the dorm room. Malcolm leans away from the camera as he pushes off the desk he’s using. He swivels in the chair a couple times like a little hyper boy. Martin’s breath catches as he recognizes the chair from his workshop in the basement of their house. Instead of his coy teasing, Malcolm doffs his terrycloth robe immediately.

A chain necklace with stylish thick links sits around his neck. It’s genuine gold plucked from Jessica’s boudoir. Malcolm has another surprise in store. His erect cock pokes from the waistband of emerald satin lingerie trimmed with black lace. Martin remembers that particular pair of panties, vividly. Green satin stretches taut over Malcolm’s balls in familiar lighting. 

Malcolm spreads himself in Martin’s chair, knees hooked over the leather arm rests festooned with brass rivets. Martin imagines that Malcolm lifted the panties from the clothesline in the basement laundry room.

“I miss my dad when he’s away, but lucky me, I get to play,” giggles Malcolm. He plays with his mother’s jewelry; plays with himself. Fondles the panties. “I know you love them. They’re satin. I found them under your bed.”

Far from home, Martin swears and pounds the table where his surgical items are laid out on disposable cotton pads. He doesn’t blink as Malcolm moves the laptop to the seat of the chair. Malcolm bends over his workshop table and spanks himself red; a beautiful contrast to the lustrous green satin. Malcolm clambers barefoot onto Martin’s tabletop strewn with papers. Malcolm bats the papers off the tabletop like a naughty kitten. Then he presents his ass like a centerfold model on his father’s table. 

His toes nudge at a half open top drawer; Martin desires to reach through the screen. Malcolm stares into the webcam as he carefully lifts in his hand a marble pestle which Martin normally keeps with the matching mortar on a shelf. It’s been a decade at least since Martin compounded any prescriptions in the mortar. Malcolm lubes the thicker end of the pestle. He shivers as he rolls the pestle along his pale thighs. Jessica's purloined lingerie dangles from Malcolm's ankle.

“It’s heavy and oh so cold. I love how it feels in my hand. Let’s take a poll. How many of you think I can handle five thick inches inside me?” surveys Malcolm, with exaggerated licking and biting as he tugs the fat gold chain around his throat. “I wonder if I can hold it without using my hands? Can I handle this weight deep inside? Show you how tight I am.”

<<DadliestCatch22>>: If you fail to do so, Dad should punish you.

Malcolm licks his teeth, baring his neck and batting his lashes at incoming messages. He gasps and speaks out wanton mischief. “I’m messing up my dad's desk. He'll be out of sorts. Totally kill me. After he makes me bleach everything because I am a dirty dirty boy. I think he'll go easy on me but I want it really, really hard. I have Dad wrapped around my finger but he has me all over his dick. Dad wants me for himself.”

Martin watches Malcolm grind onto the unforgiving marble rod as more users sign on. The marble heavily thunks and scrapes his workshop table as it tenderizes Malcolm’s slick pink hole. Malcolm’s skin puffs out as he fucks himself on Martin’s desk. He strokes off with the satin panties. Malcolm drops the marble pestle when he comes, his ass clenching so unexpectedly that the marble shoots onto the cement floor in a hard bang. But what Martin cares about is how Malcolm gapes for him, opening up beautifully in a place where Malcolm spent years on Martin’s lap.

“I wish I could have some of your tea,” says Malcolm, smiling in a way that only Martin could decode. “But for now, I better go to bed. Thanks guys.”

Martin considers a variety of suitable punishments for Malcolm, the panty thief, who definitely caused property damage. But first things first…

“That is my boy. Makes me proud even when he misbehaves a little. But I can correct him,” coos Martin, lavishing attention on his guest. “Aren’t you grateful that I removed your eyelids? You didn’t miss any of the action.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want this. Malcolm didn't want this. Yet here we are.


End file.
